


who are you?

by PumpkinDoodles



Series: Taserbones Tumblr Prompts & Tiny (Adorkable) Fics [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Memory Loss, TripleAgent!Rumlow, hints of Domestic Taserbones, hospital rooms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/pseuds/PumpkinDoodles
Summary: Taserbones  and “What do you mean who am I? We’re married. - Who the f*$k are you?” for @ibelieveinturtles





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ibelieveinturtles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibelieveinturtles/gifts).

> *I own nothing!

He woke up in the hospital bed, head splitting like someone had hit him with an axe. In point of fact, Brock Rumlow realized, someone  _ could  _ have. The last thing he remembered was being on a quinjet over the Indian Ocean. His reflection in the nearest piece of medical equipment was faint, but he could see the shadow of bruises on his temple. He sighed and pressed the little button for more pain meds. Take your meds, sleep it off, his aching brain suggested. 

This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d survived being a triple agent, his Triskelion injuries, even a stint pretending to be Crossbones while he stole back missing SHIELD things from his old HYDRA pals for Fury. The best thing to do was rest until he was cleared for work again.

He’d just closed his eyes when he heard the squeak and thud of rapid footsteps on the hospital linoleum and his room door burst open. “Honey!” someone said. He opened his eyes. A brunette woman was leaning over his bed now, face panicked. Wide blue eyes looked at him in alarm. “I came as soon as I heard,” she said, reaching out gingerly. Her fingers combed back his hair.

“Thanks,” he said wryly. She was gorgeous. “But who the fuck are you?”

“What do you mean who am I? We’re married!” she said, going pale. 

“M-m-married?” he stuttered out. Even he was surprised by the squeakiness of his voice. Her eyebrows went up.

“You--you don’t remember me?” she said planitively. “Not at all?” Her voice was sad. Brock realized there were tears in her eyes. He had no clue who she was, but her sad voice felt like being stabbed in the gut. It did things to him, just like those blue eyes and wide mouth. He reached out to comfort her and realized he was wearing a ring on his left hand. _ Fuck, _ he thought.  _ Fuck. I don’t even remember my own wife. _ He wanted to vomit. 

“I--I remember some,” he lied. “A little bit.”

“Oh,” she said, looking fractionally less heartbroken. She gave him a wide, teary smile--half weeping, half joyful. She was even more beautiful when she smiled. He felt stunned.

“Wow,” he told her. “You’re, uh, something, sweetheart.”

“You’re always saying that to me,” she said, almost playfully. That made him feel slightly better. He should keep this going, he thought, so she wouldn’t figure out he didn’t know shit. His wife. Jesus. What was her name? How long had he been out, he wondered? He could swear he hadn’t been on a date in--just then, his tired brain propelled a memory of himself and the woman in front of him doing laundry. He could remember them doing that together.

“I just lost a little bit of time, baby,” he said coaxingly. “You fill me on what’s happened recently, because the last thing I remember is telling you couldn’t fold towels for shit.” She laughed then.

“Well,” she said, “we just had this dinner party for our terrible neighbors, we hate them. Jim and Karen. Blergh.” 

His wife smelled like vanilla. “I’m Darcy,” she said, climbing into his hospital bed with a mixture of sweetness and shamelessness in her expression that made him feel almost dizzy. 

“Darcy,” he repeated. She gave him one of those smiles again. She pressed a kiss into his cheekbone carefully and he slid an arm around her back, turning his head to catch the corner of her mouth. “Someone’s feeling it,” she teased.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, smirking. He was very into being married, it dawned on him. He kept getting little flashes of memories of her: Darcy making coffee, the two of them bickering over what to watch on television, the way she looked in silly pajamas. She was curled up in his hospital bed, telling him about how she’d been failing to convince him to get a dog--Brock was on the verge of agreeing to one--when Fury swept into the room in his long coat. “Boss--” Brock said.

“Lewis,” Fury barked, “get out of his damn bed and stop fucking with my STRIKE Commander.”

“Hey, hey, nobody fucking talks to my wife like that--” Brock said, sitting up and pointing aggressively with his free hand. He tightened the arm he had around Darcy protectively. Then she burst out laughing. He was looking at her in surprise when Fury spoke.

“She’s not your damn wife, Rumlow,” he said. “I paired you up for a six-week long undercover mission trying to catch some HYDRA cell remnants. You pretended to be married for work.”

“What?” Rumlow said. He looked at Darcy for help. She nodded.

“Only fake married,” she told him. “In the ‘burbs. About two weeks ago?”

“You can’t stand each other,” Fury added.

“I’m still wearing a ring,” he said. “Why am I still wearing a ring?”

“I have no idea,” Darcy said. “Because after you arrested Jim and Karen, you threw one of your boxing gloves at me and said you’d be happy never to hear me talk about Katy Perry or my ID murder shows again.”

“I did?” Brock said, stunned. There was a moment of silence. “Which one of you is fucking with me?” Brock said bluntly. He looked from Darcy to Fury. “Because that is not what I remember at all.”

“No,” Darcy told him. “You definitely hate me.” She made to crawl out of bed. He stared at her. 

“Can we discuss HYDRA now that Lewis is done with her prank offensive?” Fury said, as she walked to the door. 

“Sure,” Brock said, eyes locked on her back. "Fine. HYDRA." He watched her through the blinds as she left. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by ibelieveinturtles:  
A: “Oh, you’re still alive.” B: “Don’t sound so disappointed. I might think you don’t like me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Jane heard Darcy sigh. Again. Ostensibly, she was watching people make spider cupcakes on _ Halloween Wars _while Jane did theorem work, but Jane knew better. That was a Rumlow-related sigh. “Why don’t you just call him?” she said.

“What? Who?” Darcy said.

“You know who. Brock,” Jane said. “Just resolve your mutual obsession or whatever it is--”

“I’m not obsessed with him,” Darcy objected. 

“Really?” she said, raising an eyebrow significantly. The ongoing Darcy-Rumlow saga was worse than her relationship with Thor, Jane thought. Rumlow had been assigned to be their security at an event in Oslo, obnoxiously hit on Darcy, been tased, was unaffected--but evidently delighted--by said tasing, and had proceeded to tease Darcy whenever they met. He’d left little smartass notes on her desk once they joined SHIELD, introduced her to people by the wrong name, and would pinch her. In response, Darcy tased him, poked him, and started calling him “Rock Bumlow,” just to be equally annoying. But they never seemed to get anywhere different, either. At one point, Jane had hoped they’d actually date. When that didn’t happen, Jane had consented to let SHIELD steal her assistant for six weeks in the hopes of the two of them screwing out all that tension. But Rumlow was apparently more serious on missions and had just lectured Darcy about safety and towel folding until she texted Jane to express genuine resentment and annoyance with him, not her typical hyperfixation masquerading as mild irritation. 

Jane had hoped that would be the end of things. But when she’d found out he was injured, Darcy had immediately left to see him. She’d thought he was messing with her and tried to scare him into thinking they were married. She’d said it was to frighten him into behaving, but Jane was skeptical. They just couldn’t quit each other. That had been two days ago and Darcy was still all mopey. “I think the obsession is mutual, Darce,” Jane said wryly. Darcy pulled a face.

“No way.”

“You could have a cease-fire?” Jane offered. “Since he’s hurt?”

“He calls me _Ciccia,”_ Darcy groused. This was her oldest, most frequent Rumlow complaint. “I refuse to end the war.” She glared.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a cute nickname--”

“It means fatty,” Darcy said. “He took one look at me in Oslo and started calling me little fatty. Not darling or angel or even hey, woman, Jane! Fatty.” Darcy huffed. “If Fury hadn’t shown up, I should have asked him for wife money or something,” she grumbled. “He might have given it to me, if he was really that out of it.”

“I heard that you were kissing in his hospital bed?” Jane said archly.

“I did a normal fake-spouse cheek kiss, like we practiced for the job,” Darcy insisted. “He made the move--”

“Which cheeks?” Jane asked. Darcy wasn’t looking at her, though.

“He was the one trying to cuddle me,” she said bitterly. Suddenly, Darcy sat up straighter. “Jane, what if all his hypermacho STRIKE buddies found out he was snuggling me? Wouldn’t he be embarrassed? I mean, I _ am _little _Ciccia,_ after all.”

“Nope,” Jane said. That didn’t seem to register, either. Darcy was muttering to herself and tapping her phone. “What are you doing?”

“Responding to the text he sent me this afternoon,” Darcy said. “He’s back to normal now. He was sending me sad selfies, asking me to visit so I could eat his Jell-O because he hates it and I eat fake food.” She flashed Jane her phone screen: a shirtless Brock was laying in his hospital bed, pouting and smoldering. It was all Jane could do not to laugh. He was doing duckface with visible chest muscles!

“Why don’t you go tonight?” the scientist asked.

“It’s eight-thirty.”

“Haven’t you told the hospital you’re married?” Jane suggested. 

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “Do you know, he even has me saved as _Ciccia_ in his phone?”

“Maybe you should take him a shirt,” Jane said.

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “An ugly shirt.” She stood up and went over to the clean laundry basket to select one of Thor’s shirts. “This rust-colored one,” Darcy declared. “It’s horrible.” She was halfway to the door when Jane called out.

“Darce?” she asked.

“Hmmm?” She looked up from her phone. “Yes?” she asked Jane.

“Maybe change out of your fuzzy slippers and put real shoes on?” Jane said mildly.

“Oh,” Darcy said, looking down. She wiggled her fuzzy puppy-clad feet. “Yeah.”

Brock was channel surfing in his hospital bed when he heard footsteps and peered towards the hallway. Darcy appeared a second later. “Hey, _Ciccia,”_ he teased. She frowned then. 

“Oh, you’re still alive? I thought you were dying of a bad food overdose?” she snarked.

“Don’t sound so disappointed. I might think you don’t like me,” Brock told her. Darcy scoffed. “What?” he asked.

“You annoy me,” she muttered, stepping over to the side of his bed. “Jane suggested I bring you a shirt.”

“Yeah?” he said, reaching out. She must’ve thought he wanted the shirt. Instead he held her wrist, thumbing over the top of her hand. “You scared me,” he said.

“What, scared to be married?” She wouldn’t look at him, though. Those blue eyes he liked so much were focused on the nearest monitor, not his face. He thought that was significant. 

“Nope,” he said. “Not scared of that.” He threaded his fingers through hers, prying away the t-shirt.

“You ought to be frightened I’ll tase you again,” Darcy said.

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said, grinning. “You know what hurts?”

“What?” she asked. She looked uncomfortable. When she tried to step back, he held her hand.

“My feelings,” he said. “You hurt my feelings.”

“Your feelings?” she said. "Since when do you have actual feelings?"

"I'm not made out of stone," he said. "And you hurt me."

"I'm sorry. I wouldn't have hurt your feelings...if I'd known you were capable of actual human emotions," she added. 

"There you go again, wounding me," Brock complained, grinning. Darcy made a face of intense emotion.

“You call me Fatty!” she burst out. "For _years, _I have put up with that--" 

“What?” he asked. "What are you talking about?" 

“You’re always calling me little fatty in Italian,” she grumbled. He barked out a laugh. 

“That what you think that means?” he asked, slipping his hands over her hips. “No, sweetheart.” He shook his head.

“That’s what Google said.” She glared at him. He smirked at her.

“Lies,” he murmured. _ “Ciccia _means plump and sweet and delicious.” He caressed her slowly. “It’s what you call your wife when you spend all your time thinking about holding her.”

“Cut it out,” Darcy said. She was all flushed, he realized, looking at her face and neck. He made his voice soft. 

“I miss my fake wife,” he told her. “Even when I didn’t remember everything, I wanted to protect you and listen to you talk about puppies and fool around.”

“You can’t just--you better not be--” she stuttered.

“C’mon, Darcy, you know how I really feel,” he said. “Get in here with me?” He pouted at her. Her expression softened. He could see her losing her resolve to resist him. 

“I know how I _ wanted _you to feel,” she said, slipping her shoes off so she could climb in next to him. The hospital bed squeaked as she curled up next to him. “I thought if we were alone, you’d actually talk to me, but you were so damn bossy--”

“Hold the fucking phone, _ Ciccia. _I’m trying to keep you safe from the HYDRA psychos next door and that makes me bossy?” Brock asked.

“Towel folding?” Darcy pointed out. 

“Your towel tower looked like it was made in Pisa,” he teased. 

“Shut up--” Darcy was saying, when he leaned over to kiss her. “Mmmm,” she sighed against his mouth.

“I love you,” he told her. “I realized that when you told me I hated you.” 

"Yeah?" she said, looking delighted. "I've been crazy about you forever." Then she frowned. "If this is some trick to get me to have sex with you in a hospital..."

"God, no," he said. "Germs, sweetheart." She laughed.

"You're so weird about germs," she said. Then she sat up a fraction. "Why'd you take your shirt off?"

"For you," he said. "I remembered how you do big eyes whenever I don't wear clothes. Like a pug seeing a burger." Darcy snorted.

"I actually loved you best when you didn't remember me," Darcy told him, "because you were much nicer to me when you didn't have a clue. If Fury hadn't shown up and ruined it..." 

"Excuse me, being a guy without a clue is my thing," he joked, tracing his fingers over her jawline. "I can be that guy every fucking day."

"Promise?" Her expression was hopeful. 

"Yeah," he said, leaning down to kiss her again. "Yeah."

When the nurse came back to check his vitals, Darcy was tucked under his arm, snoring slightly. Brock grinned. “This is my wife,” he said. “She’s part pug.”


End file.
